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RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP 



RILEY 

SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



WITH PICTURES BY 

WILL VAWTER 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890 

1892, 1893, 1894, 1900, 5903, 1908, 1913. 191S 

James Whitcomb Riley 



PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 

BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN, N. Y- 

©CI.A411283 
AUG 30 1915 



H/ 



To 

Young E. Allison — Bookman 



THE BOOKMAN he's a humming-bird- 
His feasts are honey-fine, — 
(With hi! hilloo! 
And clover-dew 
And roses lush and rare!) 
His roses are the phrase and word 
Of olden tomes divine; 
(With hi! and ho! 
And pinks ablow 
And posies everywhere!) 
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, — 

He steals from song to song — 
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme, 

And takes his heart along 
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse 
And ballads, throng on throng. 
(With ho! and hey! 
And brook and brae, 
And brinks of shade and shine!) 

A humming-bird the Bookman is — 
Though cumbrous, gray and grim, — ■ 
(With hi! hilloo! 
And honey-dew 
And odors musty-rare!) 
He bends him o'er that page of his 
As o'er the rose's rim. 
(With hi! and ho! 
And pinks aglow 
And roses everywhere!) 
Ay, he's the featest humming-bird, 

On airiest of wings 
He poises pendent o'er the poem 

That blossoms as it sings — 
God friend him as he dips his beak 
In such delicious things ! 
(With ho! and hey! 
And world away 
And only dreams for him!) 



O FRIENDS of mine, zvhose kindly zuords come to me 
Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen, 
If I had power to tell the good you do me, 
And how the blood you zvarm goes laughing through me, 
My tongue would babble baby-talk again. 

And I would toddle round the zvorld to meet you — 

Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees 
And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet you, 
And twine my arms about you, and entreat you 
For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these — 

A thousand rhymes enwr ought of nought but presses 

Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin, 
And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses, 
And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses 

She folds away her wings and swoons therein. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Abe Martin 142 

America's Thanksgiving .- 182 

Ancient Printerman, The 101 

Art and Poetry 78 

Back from Town 23 

Be Our Fortunes as They May 34 

Because 152 

Christmas Greeting 141 

Dan O'Sullivan 132 

Dead Joke and the Funny Man, The 180 

Down to the Capital 80 

Friend of a Wayward Hour 46 

Good-by er Howdy-do 58 

Her Valentine 140 

Herr Weiser 153 

Hobo Voluntary, A . . . . 25 

I Smoke My Pipe 36 

In the Afternoon . . 148 

In the Heart of June 120 

James B. Maynard 100 

Letter to a Friend, A ' . . 52 

"Little Man in the Tinshop, The" . . 61 

Little Old Poem that Nobody Reads, The 146 

Mother-Song, A 158 

My Bachelor Chum 74 

My Friend 126 

My Henry 48 

xv 



CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

My Jolly Friend's Secret 114 

My Old Friend 134 

Old Band, The 121 

Old Chums 89 

Old-Fashioned Bible, The 54 

Old John Henry 136 

Old Indiany 185 

Old Man, The 92 

Old Man and Jim, The 105 

Old School-Chum, The 112 

Our Old Friend Neverfail 72 

Poet's Love for the Children, The 42 

Reach Your Hand to Me 176 

Scotty 90 

Song by Uncle Sidney, A 41 

Stepmother, The 162 

That Night 168 

To Almon Keefer 170 

To the Quiet Observer 174 

Tom Van Arden 68 

Tommy Smith 66 

Traveling Man, The 128 

Uncle Sidney to Marcellus 40 

What "Old Santa" Overheard 160 

When Old Jack Died 163 

When We Three Meet 60 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" . Frontispiece 

Back from Town — Headpiece 23 

A Hobo Voluntary — Head and tailpiece 25 

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank .... 27 

And so likewise does the farmhands stare 31 

Be Our Fortunes as They May — Head and tailpiece . . 34 

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds 37 

Uncle Sidney to Marcellus — Headpiece 40 

The Poet's Love for the Children — Head and tailpiece . 42 

Of the orchard-lands of childhood 43 

Friend of a Wayward Hour — Head and tailpiece ... 46 

My Henry — Headpiece 48 

Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk ! .' . . . . . . .49 

A Letter to a Friend — Head and tailpiece 52 

The Old-Fashioned Bible — Headpiece 54 

The blessed old volume 55 

Good-by er Howdy-do — Head and tailpiece 58 

"The Little Man in the Tinshop" — Headpiece .... 61 

The orchestra, with its melody ......... 63 

Tommy Smith — Headpiece 66 

Our Old Friend Neverfail — Headpiece 72 

My Bachelor Chum — Headpiece 74 

His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in . . . 75 

Art and Poetry — Headpiece 78 

Down to the Capital — Headpiece 80 

To old one-legged chaps, like me 83 

xvii 



ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

PAGE 

"It's all jes' artificial, this-ere high-priced life of ours" 87 

Old Chums — Headpiece 89 

Scotty — Headpiece 90 

The Old Man — Head and tailpiece 92 

In your reposeful gaze 95 

The Ancient Printerman — Headpiece 101 

O Printerman of sallow face 103 

The Old Man and Jim — Head and tailpiece 105 

"Well, good-by, Jim" 107 

The Old School-Chum — Head and tailpiece .... 112 

My Jolly Friend's Secret — Head and tailpiece .... 114 

Ah, friend of mine, how goes it 115 

The Old Band — Head and tailpiece 121 

i want to hear the old band play 123 

My Friend — Head and tailpiece 126 

The Traveling Man — Headpiece 128 

Who have met him with smiles and with cheer . . . 129 

Dan O'Sullivan — Head and tailpiece 132 

My Old Friend — Headpiece 134 

Old John Henry — Headpiece 136 

A smilin' face and a hearty hand 137 

Christmas Greeting — Headpiece 141 

Abe Martin — Headpiece 142 

His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus coin' 143 

The Little Old Poem that Nobody Reads — Head and 

tailpiece 146 

In the Afternoon — Head and tailpiece 148 

You in the hammock; and I, near by 149 

Herr Weiser — Head and tailpiece 153 

xviii 



ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

PAGE 

And lily and aster and columbine 155 

A Mother-Song — Headpiece 158 

What "Old Santa" Overheard — Head and tailpiece . . 160 

When Old Jack Died — Head and tailpiece 163 

We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died 165 

That Night — Head and tailpiece 168 

To Almon Keefer — Head and tailpiece 170 

Under "the old sweet apple tree" 171 

To the Quiet Observer — Head and tailpiece .... 174 

Reach Your Hand to Me — Head and tailpiece .... 176 

Reach your hand to me, my friend 177 

The Dead Joke and the Funny Man — Head and tailpiece 180 

America's Thanksgiving — Head and tailpiece .... 182 

Old Indiany — Head and tailpiece ........ 185 

But, fellers, she's a leaky State !..«,..„.. 187 



RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP 



*% 



^0jf 



BACK FROM TOWN 

OLD friends alius is the best, 
Halest-like and heartiest : 
Knowed us first, and don't allow 
We're so blame much better now ! 
They was standin' at the bars 
When we grabbed "the kivvered kyars' 
And lit out fer town, to make 
Money — and that old mistake ! 



BACK FROM TOWN 

Wc thought then the world we went 
Into beat "The Settlement," 
And the friends 'at we'd make there 
Would beat any anywhere ! — 
And they do — fer that's their biz : 
They beat all the friends they is — 
'Cept the raal old friends like you 
'At staid at home, like I'd ort to ! 

W'y, of all the good things yit 
I ain't shet of, is to quit 
Business, and git back to sheer 
These old comforts waitin' here — 
These old friends ; and these old hands 
'At a feller understands ; 
These old winter nights, and old 
Young-folks chased in out the cold ! 

Sing "Hard Times'll come ag'in 
No More !" and neighbers all jine in ! 
Here's a feller come from town 
Wants that-air old fiddle down 
From the chimbly ! — Git the floor 
Cleared fer one cowtillion more ! — 
It's poke the kitchen lire, says he, 
And shake a friendly leg with me ! 

24 




A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

OH, the hobo's life is a roving life; 
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight— - 
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn 
For the life of a hobo, never to return. 

The hobo's heart it is light and free, 

Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell, to thee ! — 

Farewell to thee, for it's far away 

The homeless hobo's footsteps stray. 

In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim, 
It's any path is the one for him ! 
He'll take his chances, long or short, 
For to meet his fate with a valiant heart. 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car 
And it's beauty-beaut' at the pigs-feet bar; 
But when his drinks and his cats is made 
Then the hobo shunts off down the grade. 

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank, 
And he cuts his name on the water-tank — 
He cuts his name and the hobo sign, — 
"Bound for the land of corn and wine !" 

(Oh, it's I like friends that he'ps me through, 
And the friends also that he'ps you, too, — 
Oh, I like all friends, 'most every kind 
But I don't like friends that don't like mine.) 

There's friends of mine, when they gits the hunch, 
Comes a swarmin' in, the blasted bunch, — 
"Clog-step Jonny" and "Flat-wheel Bill" 
And "Brockey Ike" from Circleville. 

With "Cooney Ward" and "Sikes the Kid" 
And old "Pop Law-son" — the best we had — 
The rankest mug and the worst for lush 
And the dandiest of the whole blame push. 



26 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 



Oh, them's the times I remembers best 

When I took my chance with all the rest, 

And hogged fried chicken and roastin' ears, too, 

And sucked cheroots when the feed was through. 

Oh, the hobo's way is the railroad line, 
And it's little he cares for schedule time ; 
Whatever town he's a-striken for 
Will wait for him till he gits there. 

And whatever burg that he lands in 

There's beauties there just thick for him — 

There's beauty at "The Queen's Taste Lunch-stand," 

sure, 
Or "The Last Chance Boardin' House" back-door. 

He's lonesome-like, so he gits run in, 
To git the hang o' the world ag'in ; 
But the laundry circles he moves in there 
Makes him sigh for the country air, — 



29 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

So it's Good-by gals! and lie takes his chance 
And wads hisself through the workhouse-fence 
He sheds the town and the railroad, too, 
And strikes mud roads for a change of view. 

The jay drives by on his way to town, 
And looks on the hobo in high scorn, 
And so likewise does the farmhands stare- 
But what the haids does the hobo care ! 

He hits the pike, in the summer's heat 
Or the winter's cold, with its snow and sleet — 
With a boot on one foot, and one shoe — 
Or he goes barefoot, if he chooses to. 

But he likes the best, when the days is warm, 
With his bum Prince-Albert on his arm — 
He likes to size up a farmhouse where 
They haint no man nor bulldog there. 

Oh, he gits his meals wherever he can, 
So natchurly he's a handy man — 
He's a handy man both day and night, 
And he's always blest with an appetite ! 



30 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

A tin o' black coffee, and a rhuburb pie — 
Be they old and cold as charity — 
They're hot-stuff enough for the pore hobo, 
And it's "Thanks, kind lady, for to treat me so !" 

Then he fills his pipe with a stub cigar 
And swipes a coal from the kitchen fire, 
And the hired girl says, in a smilin' tone, — 
"It's good-by, John, if you call that goin' !" 

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life, 

It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight — 

It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn 

For the life of a hobo, never to return. 





BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY 

BE our fortunes as they may, 
Touched with loss or sorrow, 
Saddest eyes that weep to-day 
May be glad to-morrow. 



Yesterday the rain was here, 
And the winds were blowing — 

Sky and earth and atmosphere 
Brimmed and overflowing. 



BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY 

But to-day the sun is out, 
And the drear November 

We were then so vexed about 
Now we scarce remember. 

Yesterday you lost a friend — 
Bless your heart and love it ! — 

For you scarce could comprehend 
All the aching of it ; — 

But I sing to you and say : 

Let the lost friend sorrow- 
Here's another come to-day, 
Others may to-morrow. 






I SMOKE MY PIPE 

I CAN'T extend to every friend 
In need a helping hand — 
No matter though I wish it so, 
Tis not as Fortune planned ; 
But haply may I fancy they 

Are men of different stripe 
Than others think who hint and wink, 
And so — I smoke my pipe ! 

A golden coal to crown the bowl — 

My pipe and I alone, — 
I sit and muse with idler views 

Perchance than I should own : — 
It might be worse to own the purse 

Whose glutted bowels gripe 
In little qualms of stinted alms ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 



■<:.■'■'-;; .^- r -j, r ■■ _ • ;• ■ ■,,:. 




I SMOKE MY PIPE 

And if inclined to moor my mind 

And cast the anchor Hope, 
A puff of breath will put to death 

The morbid misanthrope 
That lurks inside — as errors hide 

In standing forms of type 
To mar at birth some line of worth ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 

The subtle stings misfortune flings 

Can give me little pain 
When my narcotic spell has wrought 

This quiet in my brain : 
When I can waste the past in taste 

So luscious and so ripe 
That like an elf I hug myself ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds 

I watch the phantom's flight, 
Till alien eyes from Paradise 

Smile on me as I write : 
And I forgive the wrongs that live, 

As lightly as I wipe 
Away the tear that rises here ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 
39 




UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS 

MARCELLUS, won't you tell us- 
Truly tell us, if you can, — 
What will you be, Marcellus, 
When you get to be a man ? 

You turn, with never answer 
But to the band that plays. — 

O rapt and eerie dancer, 
What of your future days? 



UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS 

Far in the years before us 
We dreamers see your fame, 

While song and praise in chorus 
Make music of your name. 

And though our dreams foretell us 

As only visions can, 
You must prove it, O Marcellus, 

When you get to be a man ! 



A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY 

OWERE I not a clod, intent 
On being just an earthly thing, 
Ed be that rare embodiment 

Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing, 
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent, 

Divinely-tender twittering 
That Echo swoons to re-present, — 
A bluebird in the Spring. 



41 




THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN 

KINDLY and warm and tender, 
He nestled each childish palm 
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer 
And his speech a blessed psalm. 



He has turned from the marvelous pages 
Of many an alien tome — 
Haply come down from Olivet, 
Or out from the gates of Rome- — 



; 








L 



THE POET S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN 

Set sail o'er the seas between him 
And each little beckoning hand 
That fluttered about in the meadows 
And groves of his native land, — 

Fluttered and flashed on his vision 
As, in the glimmering light 
Of the orchard-lands of childhood, 
The blossoms of pink and white. 

And there have been sobs in his bosom, 
As out on the shores he stept, 
And many a little welcomer 
Has wondered why he wept. — 

That was because, O children, 

Ye might not always be 

The same that the Savior's arms were wound 

About, in Galilee. 



45 




FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR 

FRIEND of a wayward hour, you came 
Like some good ghost, and went the same 
And I within the haunted place 
Sit smiling on your vanished face, 
And talking with — your name. 



But thrice the pressure of your hand — 
First hail — congratulations — and 
Your last "God bless you !" as the train 
That brought you snatched you back again 
Into the unknown land. 



FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR 

"God bless me ?" Why, your very prayer 
Was answered ere you asked it there, 
I know — for when you came to lend 
Me your kind hand, and call me friend, 
God blessed me unaware. 





MY HENRY 

HE'S jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin 5 
Feller, — humped, and sort o' sulkin' 
Like, and ruther still-appearin' — 
Kind-as-ef he wuzn't keerin' 

Whether school helt out er not — 
That's my Henry, to a dot ! 



Alius kind o' liked him — whether 
Childern, er growed-up together ! 
Fifteen year' ago and better, 
'Fore he ever knowed a letter, 
Run acrosst the little fool 
In my Primer-class at school. 




m\ 



MY HENRY 



When the Teacher wuzn't lookin', 
He'd be th'owin' wads ; er crookin' 
Pins ; er sprinklin' pepper, more'n 
Likely, on the stove ; er borin' 

Gimlet-holes up thue his desk — 
Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk ! 

But, somehow, as I was goin' 
On to say, he seemed so knowing 
Other ways, and cute and cunnin' — 
Alius wuz a notion runnin' 

Thue my giddy, fool-head he 
Jes' had be'n cut out f er me ! 

Don't go much on prophesying 
But last night whilse I wuz fryin' 
Supper, with that man a-pitchin' 
Little Marthy round the kitchen, 

Think-says-I, "Them baby's eyes 
Is my Henry's, jes' p'cise !" 



51 




A LETTER TO A FRIEND 



THE past is like a story 
I have listened to in dreams 
That vanished in the glory 

Of the Morning's early gleams ; 
And — at my shadow glancing — 

I feel a loss of strength, 
As the Day of Life advancing 
Leaves it shorn of half its length. 



A LETTER TO A FRIEND 

But it's all in vain to worry 

At the rapid race of Time — 
And he flies in such a flurry 

When I trip him with a rhyme, 
I'll bother him no longer 

Than to thank you. for the thought 
That "my fame is growing stronger 

As you really think it ought." 

And though I fall below it, 

I might know as much of mirth 
To live and die a poet 

Of unacknowledged worth ; 
For Fame is but a vagrant — 

Though a loyal one and brave, 
And his laurels ne'er so fragrant 

As when scattered o'er the grave. 






lj 



53 




THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE 



HOW dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood 
That now but in memory I sadly review ; 
The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood, 

The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto ; 
The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple, 

The doves that came fluttering out overhead 

As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people 

To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. 

The old-fashioned Bible — 

The dust-covered Bible — 

The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 







- 




THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE 

The blessed old volume ! The face bent above it — 

As now I recall it — is gravely severe, 
Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it 

Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear, 
And, as down his features it trickles and glistens, 

The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head 
Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens 

To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. 
The old-fashioned Bible — ■ 
The dust-covered Bible — 

The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 

Ah ! who shall look backward with scorn and derision 

And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies 
In the dust of the past, while this newer revision 

Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies ? 
Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven ? 

Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said, 
When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven 

To hear the old Bible my grandfather read? 
The old-fashioned Bible — 

The dust-covered Bible — 

The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 



57 




GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO 

SAY good-by er howdy-do — 
What's the odds betwixt the two ? 
Comin' — goin', ev'ry day — 
Best friends first to go away — 
Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold 
Than their weight in solid gold 
Slips their grip while greetin' you. — 
Say good-by er howdy-do ! 



GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO 

Howdy-do, and then, good-by — 
Mixes jes' like laugh and cry ; 
Deaths and births, and worst and best, 
Tangled their contrariest; 
Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell 
Skeerin' up some funer'l knell. — 
Here's my song, and there's your sigh- 
Howdy-do, and then, good-by ! 

Say good-by er howdy-do — 
Jes' the same to me and you ; 
'Taint worth while to make no fuss, 
'Cause the job's put up on us ! 
Some One's runnin' this concern 
That's got nothin' else to learn : 
Ef He's willin 5 , we'll pull through — 
Say good-by er howdy-do ! 




WHEN WE THREE MEET 

WHEN we three meet? Ah ! friend of mine 
Whose verses well and flow as wine, — 
My thirsting fancy thou dost fill 
With draughts delicious, sweeter still 
Since tasted by those lips of thine. 

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine 
Of autumn, with a warmth divine, 
Thrilled through as only I shall thrill 
When we three meet. 

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, 

We yet shall loosen, line by line, 
Old ballads, and the blither trill 
Of our-time singers — for there will 

Be with us all the Muses nine 
When we three meet. 




THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP" 



WHEN I was a little boy, long ago, 
And spoke of the theater as the "show," 
The first one that I went to see, 
Mother's brother it was took me — 
(My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be 
Only a boy — I loved him so!) 
And ah, how pleasant he made it all ! 
And the things he knew that / should know ! — 
The stage, the u drop," and the frescoed wall ; 
The sudden flash of the lights ; and oh, 
The orchestra, with its melody, 
And the lilt and jingle and jubilee 

Of "The Little Man in the Tinshop" ! 



THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP 

For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there, 

With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair ; 

Showed me the "Second," and " 'Cello," and "Bass," 

And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face 

At the little end of the horn he blew 

Silvery bubbles of music through; 

And he coined me names of them, each in turn, 

Some comical name that I laughed to learn, 

Clean on down to the last and best, — 

The lively little man, never at rest, 

Who hides away at the end of the string, 

And tinkers and plays on everything, — 

That's "The Little Man in the Tinshop" ! 

Raking a drum like a rattle of hail, 
Clinking a cymbal or castanet ; 
Chirping a twitter or sending a wail 
Through a piccolo that thrills me yet ; 
Reeling ripples of riotous bells, 
And tipsy tinkles of triangles — 
Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound 
Till it seemed that my very soul spun round, 
As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my 
Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye 
And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand, 
"Why, that little master of all the band 
Is The Little Man in the Tinshop' ! 

62 



THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP 

"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful, 
And Paganini, and Ole Bull, 
Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn, 
And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone 
Karl, her master, with magic bow, 
Blent with the angels', and held her so 
Tranced till the rapturous Infinite — 
And I've heard arias, faint and low, 
From many an operatic light 
Glimmering on my swimming sight 
Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last, 
I still sit, holding my roses fast 

For 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.' " 

Oho ! my Little Man, joy to you — 
And yours — and theirs — your lifetime through ! 
Though I've heard melodies, boy and man, 
Since first "the show" of my life began, 
Never yet have I listened to 
Sadder, madder, or gladder glees 
Than your unharmonied harmonies ; 
For yours is the music that appeals 
To all the fervor the boy's heart feels — 
All his glories, his wildest cheers, 
His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears ; 
And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels 
To "The Little Man in the Tinshop." 
6S 




TOMMY SMITH 

DIMPLE-cheeked and rosy-lipped, 
With his cap-rim backward tipped s 
Still in fancy I can see 
Little Tommy smile on me — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

Little unsung Tommy Smith — 
Scarce a name to rhyme it with ; 
Yet most tenderly to me 
Something sings unceasingly — ■ 
Little Tommy Smith. 



TOMMY SMITH 

On the verge of some far land 
Still forever does he stand, 
With his cap-rim rakishly 
Tilted ; so he smiles on me — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

Elder-blooms contrast the grace 
Of the rover's radiant face — 
Whistling back, in mimicry, 
"Old— Bob— White !" all liquidly-— 
Little Tommy Smith. 

O my jaunty statuette 
Of first love, I see you yet. 
Though you smile so mistily, 
It is but through tears I see, 
Little Tommy Smith. 

But, with crown tipped back behind, 
And the glad hand of the wind 
Smoothing back your hair, I see 
Heaven's best angel smile on me,— 
Little Tommy Smith. 



67 



TOM VAN ARDEN 

TOM VAN ARDEN, my old friend, 
Our warm fellowship is one 
Far too old to comprehend 

Where its bond was first begun : 
Mirage-like before my gaze 
Gleams a land of other days, 
Where two truant boys, astray, 
Dream their lazy lives away. 

There's a vision, in the guise 

Of Midsummer, where the Past 
Like a weary beggar lies 

In the shadow Time has cast ; 
And as blends the bloom of trees 
With the drowsy hum of bees, 
Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 



TOM VAN ARDEN 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

All the pleasures we have known 
Thrill me now as I extend 

This old hand and grasp your own — 
Feeling, in the rude caress, 
All affection's tenderness ; 
Feeling, though the touch be rough, 
Our old souls are soft enough. 

So we'll make a mellow hour : 

Fill your pipe, and taste the wine — 
Warp your face, if it be sour, 
I can spare a smile from mine ; 
If it sharpen up your wit, 
Let me feel the edge of it — 
I have eager ears to lend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? 
Are we all that we pretend 
In the jolly life we lead? — 
Bachelors, we must confess, 
Boast of "single blessedness" 
To the world, but not alone- 
Man's best sorrow is his own ! 
69 



TOM VAN ALDEN 

And the saddest truth is this, — 

Life to us has never proved 
What we tasted in the kiss 
O f the women we have loved : 
Vainly we congratulate 
Our escape from such a fate 
As their lying lips could send, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend ! 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, 
Ripen sweetest, I contend, 
As the frost falls over them: 
Your regard for me to-day 
Makes November taste of May, 
And through every vein of rhyme 
Pours the blood of summer-time. 

When our souls are cramped with youth 

Happiness seems far away 
In the future, while, in truth, 
We look back on it to-day 

Through our tears, nor dare to boast, 
"Better to have loved and lost !" 
Broken hearts are hard to mend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
70 



TOM VAN ARDEN 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

I grow prosy, and you tire ; 
Fill the glasses while I bend 

To prod up the failing fire. . . . 
You are restless : — I presume 
There's a dampness in the room. — ■ 
Much of warmth our nature begs, 
With rheumatics in our legs ! . . . 

Humph ! the legs we used to fling 

Limber- jointed in the dance, 
When we heard the fiddle ring 
Up the curtain of Romance, 
And in crowded public halls 
Played with hearts like jugglers' balls. 
Feats of mountebanks, depend! — 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

Pardon, then, this theme of mine : 
While the firelight leaps to lend 
Higher color to the wine, — 
I propose a health to those 
Who have homes, and home's repose, 
Wife- and child-love without end ! 
. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
71 




o 



OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL 
IT'S good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't 



run 



When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his 
fun; 

It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's 
not, 

Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red- 
hot ; 



OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL 

It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, 
And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the 

back ; — 
But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend 

Neverfail, 
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his 

tail! 

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, 
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks 

thataway ; 
I like to find out that the man I voted f er last fall, 
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all ; 
I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he 

can; 
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman ; 
But most I like — with you, my boy — our old friend 

Neverfail, 
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags 

his tail ! 



73 



MY BACHELOR CHUM 

A CORPULENT man is my bachelor chum, 
With a neck apoplectic and thick — 
An abdomen on him as big as a drum, 
And a fist big enough for the stick ; 
With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case, 

And a wobble uncertain — as though 
His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace 
That in youth used to favor him so. 

He is forty, at least; and the top of his head 

Is a bald and a glittering thing ; 
And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red 

As three rival roses in spring ; 



MY BACHELOR CHUM 

His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in, 

And his laugh is so breezy and bright 
That it ripples his features and dimples his chin 

With a billowy look of delight. 

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw" — 

That "the ills of a bachelor's life 
Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law 

And a boarding-school miss for a wife !" 
So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks, 

And he dines and he wines, all alone, 
With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks 

Of the comforts he never has known. 

But up in his den — (Ah, my bachelor chum!) — 

I have sat with him there in the gloom, 
When the laugh of his lips died away to become 

But a phantom of mirth in the room. 
And to look on him there you would love him, for all 

His ridiculous ways, and be dumb 
As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall 

On the tears of my bachelor chum. 



77 




ART AND POETRY 



TO HOMER DAVENPORT 



WESS he says, and sort o' grins, 
"Art and Poetry is twins ! 



"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shake 
Poetry, and no mistake ! 



"Pictures, alius, 'peared to me, 
Clean laid over Poetry ! 



ART AND POETRY 

"Let me draw, and then, i jings, 
I'll not keer a straw who sings. 

" 'F I could draw as you have drew, 
Like to jes' swop pens with you ! 

"Picture-drawin' 's my pet vision 
Of Life-work in Lands Elysian. 

"Pictures is first language we 
Find hacked out in History. 

"Most delight we ever took 
Was in our first Picture-book. 

' 'Thout the funny picture-makers, 
They'd be lots more undertakers ! 

"Still, asl say, Rhymes and Art 
'Smighty hard to tell apart. 

"Songs and pictures go together 
Same as birds and summer weather." 

. So Wess says, and sort o' grins, 
"Art and Poetry is twins." 

79 




DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 



I' BE'N down to the Capital at Washington, D. C, 
Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort 
to be 
Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the 

war 
Don't wear their pants in pairs at all — and yit how proud 
we are ! 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck 

and made 
Me stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I 

stayed 
The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away, 
And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day. 

You see I'd got the idy — and I guess most folks agrees — 
'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they 

please ; 
A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and 

all, 
And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall ! 

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke — he made his money 
square : 

We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' there ; 

I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and stayed 
and made 

His millions; don't know what I'm worth untel my pen- 
sion's paid. 

But I was goin' to tell you — er a-ruther goin' to try 
To tell you how he's livin' now : gas burnin' mighty nigh 
In ever' room about the house ; and ever' night, about, 
Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out. 

81 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

They's people there from all the world — jes' ever' kind 

'at lives, 
Injuns and all! and Senaters, and Ripresentatives ; 
And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, I 

declare, 
And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 'em 

there ! 

And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other 
room 

Jes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and per- 
fume ; 

And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time ; and statutes, 
made 

Out o' puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round there 
in the shade. 

And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me to 
take a hand 

And sashay in amongst 'em — crutch and all, you under- 
stand ; 

But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open air, 

He follered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there. 



82 



$ w 







DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

"My God !" says he — Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n 

you ! 
Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a chew. 
Set back a leetle furder in the shadder — that'll do; 
I'm tireder'n you, old man ; I'm tireder'n you. 

"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up ag'inst 

the sky? 
It's grand, first time you see it ; but it changes, by and by, 
And then it stays jes' thataway — jes' anchored high and 

dry 
Betwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer eye. 

"Night's purty ; not so purty, though, as what it ust to be 
When my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" 

says he. 
I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef she 
Knows where I am — and what I am — and what I ust to 

be? 

"That band in there ! — I ust to think 'at music couldn't 

wear 
A feller out the way it does ; but that ain't music there — 
That's jes' a' imitation, and like ever'thing, I swear, 
I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere ! 



85 



DOWN TO TTTE CAPITAL 

"It's all jes' artificial, this-'crc high-priced life of ours; 
The theory, if s sweet enough, tel it saps down and sours. 
They's no home left, ner ties o' home about it. By the 

powers, 
The whole thing's artificialer'n artificial flowers ! 

"And all I want, and could lay down and sob fer, is to 

know 
The homely things of homely life ; fer instance, jes' to go 
And set down by the kitchen stove — Lord ! that 'u'd rest 

me so, — 
Jes' set there, like I ust to do, and laugh and joke, you 

know. 

''Jes' set there, like I ust to do," says Fluke, a-startin' in, 
'Peared-like, to say the whole thing over to hisse'f ag'in ; 
Then stopped and turned, and kind o' coughed, and 

stooped and fumbled fer 
Somepin' o' 'nuther in the grass — I guess his handker- 

cher. 

Well, sence I'm back from Washington, where I left 

Fluke a-still 
A-leggin' fer me, heart and soul, on that-air pension bill, 
I've half-way struck the notion, when I think o' wealth 

and sich, 
They's nothin' much patheticker'n jes' a-bein' rich ! 

86 




OLD CHUMS 



"TF I die first," my old chum paused to say, 
1 "Mind ! not a whimper of regret : — instead, 

Laugh and be glad, as I shall. — Being dead, 
I shall not lodge so very far away 
But that our mirth shall mingle. — So, the day 

The word comes, joy with me." "I'll try," I said, 
Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my head 
And turned, with misted eyes. His roundelay 
Rang gaily on the stair ; and then the door 

Opened and — closed. . . . Yet something of the 
clear, 
Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he had 
Abided with me — strengthened more and more. — 
Then — then they brought his broken body here : 
And I laughed — whisperingly — and we were glad. 




SCOTTY 



SCOTTY'S dead.— Of course he is ! 
Jes' that same old luck of his ! — 
Ever sence we went cahoots 
He's be'n first, you bet yer boots ! 
When our schoolin' first begun, 
Got two whippin's to my one : 
Stold and smoked the first cigar : 
Stood up first before the bar, 
Takin' whisky-straight — and me 
Wastin' time on "blackberry" ! 



SCOTTY 

Beat me in the Army, too, 
And clean on the whole way through ! 
In more scrapes around the camp, 
And more troubles, on the tramp : 
Fought and fell there by my side 
With more bullets in his hide, 
And more glory in the cause, — 
That's the kind o' man he was ! 
Luck liked Scotty more'n me. — 
/ got married : Scotty, he 
Never even would apply 
Fer the pension-money I 
Had to beg of "Uncle Sam" — 
That's the kind o' cuss / am ! — 
Scotty alius first and best — 
Me the last and ornriest ! 
Yit fer all that's said and done — 
All the battles fought and won — 
We hain't prospered, him ner me — = 
Both as pore as pore could be, — 
Though we've alius, up tel now, 
Stuck together anyhow — 
Scotty alius, as I've said, 
Luckiest — And now he's dead! 



91 




THE OLD MAN 



IO ! steadfast and serene, 
-> In patient pause between 
The seen and the unseen, 

What gentle zephyrs fan 
Your silken silver hair, — 
And what diviner air 
Breathes round you like a prayer, 
Old Man? 



THE OLD MAN 

Can you, in nearer view 
Of Glory, pierce the blue 
Of happy Heaven through ; 

And, listening mutely, can 
Your senses, dull to us, 
Hear Angel-voices thus, 
In chorus glorious — ■ 

Old Man? 

In your reposeful gaze 
The dusk of Autumn days 
Is blent with April haze, 

As when of old began 
The bursting of the bud 
Of rosy babyhood — 
When all the world was good, 

Old Man. 

And yet I find a sly 
Little twinkle in your eye ; 
And your whisperingly shy 

Little laugh is simply an 
Internal shout of glee 
That betrays the fallacy 
You'd perpetrate on me, 

Old Man. 

93 



THE OLD MAN 

So just put up the frown 

That your brows are pulling down ! 

Why, the fleetest boy in town, 

As he bared his feet and ran, 
Could read with half a glance — 
And of keen rebuke, perchance — 
Your secret countenance, 

Old Man. 

Now, honestly, confess : 
Is an old man any less 
Than the little child we bless 

And caress when we can ? 
Isn't age but just a place 
Where you mask the childish face 
To preserve its inner grace, 

Old Man ? 

Hasn't age a truant day, 
Just as that you went astray 
In the wayward, restless way, 

When, brown with dust and tan, 
Your roguish face essayed, 
In solemn masquerade, 
To hide the smile it made, 

Old Man? 

94 






: 



THE OLD MAN 

Now, fair, and square, and true, 
Don't your old soul tremble through, 
As in youth it used to do 

When it brimmed and overran 
With the strange, enchanted sights, 
And the splendors and delights 
Of the old "Arabian Nights," 

Old Man? 

When, haply, you have fared 
Where glad Aladdin shared 
His lamp with you, and dared 

The Af rite and his clan ; 
And, with him, clambered through 
The trees where jewels grew — 
And filled your pockets, too, 

Old Man? 

Or, with Sinbad, at sea — 

And in veracity 

Who has sinned as bad as he, 

Or would, or will, or can ? — ■ 
Have you listened to his lies, 
With open mouth and eyes, 
And learned his art likewise, 

Old Man? 

97 



THE OLD MAN 

And you need not deny 

That your eyes were wet as dry, 

Reading novels on the sly ! 

And review them, if you can 
And the same warm tears will fall- 
Only faster, that is all — 
Over Little Nell and Paul, 

Old Man ! 

Oh, you were a lucky lad — 
Just as good as you were bad ! 
And the host of friends you had — 

Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan 
And the old School-Teacher, too, 
Though he often censured you ; 
And the girls in pink and blue, 

Old Man. 

And — as often you have leant, 
In boyish sentiment, 
To kiss the letter sent 

By Nelly, Belle, or Nan— 
Wherein the rose's hue 
Was red, the violet blue — 
And sugar sweet — and you, 

Old Man,— 



THE OLD MAN 

So, to-day, as lives the bloom, 
And the sweetness, and perfume 
Of the blossoms, I assume, 

On the same mysterious plan 
The Master's love assures, 
That the selfsame boy endures 
In that hale old heart of yours, 

Old Man. 







H 



JAMES B. MAYNARD 

IS daily, nightly task is o'er — 
He leans above his desk no more. 



His pencil and his pen say not 

One further word of gracious thought. 

All silent is his voice, yet clear 
For all a grateful world to hear ; 

He poured abroad his human love 
In opulence unmeasured of — 

While, in return, his meek demand, — 
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand 

In recognition of the true 
World's duty that he lived to do. 

So was he kin of yours and mine — 
So, even by the hallowed sign 

Of silence which he listens to. 

He hears our tears as falls the dew. 








J 



THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 

OPRINTERMAN of sallow face, 
And look of absent guile, 
Is it the 'copy' on your 'case' 
That causes you to smile? 
Or is it some old treasure scrap 
You call from Memory's file? 

"I fain would guess its mystery — 

For often I can trace 
A fellow dreamer's history 

Whene'er it haunts the face; 
Your fancy's running riot 

In a retrospective race ! 



THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying 
Afar from 'stick' and type — 

Your heart has 'gone a-maying,' 
And you taste old kisses, ripe 

Again on lips that pucker 
At your old asthmatic pipe ! 

"You are dreaming of old pleasures 
That have faded from your view ; 

And the music-burdened measures 
Of the laughs you listen to 

Are now but angel-echoes — 
O, have I spoken true?" 

The ancient Printer hinted 
With a motion full of grace 

To where the words were printed 
On a card above his "case," — 

"I am deaf and dumb !" I left him 
With a smile upon his face, 



102 



.& 



r \ 




THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

OLD man never had much to say — 
'Ceptin' to Jim — 
And Jim was the wildest boy he had — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Never heerd him speak but once 
Er twice in my life, — and first time was 
When the army broke out, and Jim he went, 
The old man backin' him, f er three months ; 
And all 'at I heerd the old man say 
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

'Peared-like, he was more satisfied 

Jes' lookin at Jim 
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? — 

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him ! 
And over and over I mind the day 
The old man come and stood round in the way 
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim — 
And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say, 

"Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 

Never was nothin' about the farm 

Disting'ished Jim ; 
Neighbors all ust to wonder why 

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : 
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had 
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, 
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad — 
'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, — 
The old man wound up a letter to him 
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said : "Tell Jim 

Good-by, 

And take keer of hisse'f." 

106 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 



Jim come home jes' long enough 

To take the whim 
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, 
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. 
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised, 
And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, 
And laid around fer a week er so, 
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade — 
Tel finally he rid away, 
And last he heerd was the old man say, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 




THE OLD MAN AND JIM 



Tuk the papers, the old man did, 

A-watchin' fer Jim — 
Fully believin' he'd make his mark 

Some way — jes' wrapped up in him !— 
And many a time the word 'u'd come 
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum— 
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where 
Jim rid right into their cannons there, 
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, 
And socked it home to the boys in gray 
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on — 
Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone. 
And the old man's words in his mind all day, 

"Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 




THE OLD MAN AND JIM 



Think of a private, now, perhaps, 

We'll say like Jim, 
'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps- 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Think of him — with the war plum' through, 
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin' the news down over Jim, 
And the old man, bendin' over him — 
The surgeon turnin' away with tears 
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years, 
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
His father's, the old voice in his ears,— - 

"Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 








THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 



E puts the poem by, to say 
His eyes are not themselves to-day ! 



H 

A sudden glamour o'er his sight — 
A something vague, indefinite — 

An oft-recurring blur that blinds 
The printed meaning of the lines, 

And leaves the mind all dusk and dim 
In swimming darkness — strange to him! 



THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 

It is not childishness, I guess, — 
Yet something of the tenderness 

That used to wet his lashes when 
A boy seems troubling him again ;— 

The old emotion, sweet and wild, 
That drove him truant when a child, 

That he might hide the tears that fell 
Above the lesson — "Little Nell." 

And so it is he puts aside 
The poem he has vainly tried 

To follow ; and, as one who sighs 
In failure, through a poor disguise 

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say 
His eyes are not themselves to-day 



■I 





MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET 

AH, friend of mine, how goes it 
Since you've taken you a mate ?- 
Your smile, though, plainly shows it 

Is a very happy state ! 
Dan Cupid's necromancy ! 

You must sit you down and dine, 
And lubricate your fancy 
With a glass or two of wine. 



MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 

And as you have "deserted/'" 

As my other chums have done, 
While I laugh alone diverted, 

As you drop off one by one — 
And I've remained unwedded, 

Till — you see — look here — that I'm, 
In a manner, "snatched bald-headed" 

By the sportive hand of Time ! 

I'm an "old 'un !" yes, but wrinkles 

Are not so plenty, quite, 
As to cover up the twinkles 

Of the boy — ain't I right? 
Yet there are ghosts of kisses 

Under this mustache of mine 
My mem'ry only misses 

When I drown 'em out with wine. 

From acknowledgment so ample, 

You would hardly take me for 
What I am — a perfect sample 

Of a "jolly bachelor" ; 
Not a bachelor has being 

When he laughs at married life 
But his heart and soul's agreeing 

That he ought to have a wife ! 
117 



MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 

Ah, ha ! old chum, this claret, 

Like Fatima, holds the key 
Of the old Blue-Beardish garret 

Of my hidden mystery ! 
Did you say you'd like to listen ? 

Ah, my boy ! the "Sad No More!" 
And the tear-drops that will glisten — 

Turn the catch upon the door, 

And sit you down beside me 

And put yourself at ease — 
I'll trouble you to slide me 

That wine decanter, please ; 
The path is kind o' mazy 

Where my fancies have to go, 
And my heart gets sort o' lazy 

On the journey — don't you know? 

Let me see — when I was twenty — 

It's a lordly age, my boy, 
When a fellow's money's plenty, 

And the leisure to enjoy — 



118 



MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 

And a girl— with hair as golden 
As — that ; and lips — well — quite 

As red as this I'm holdin' 
Between you and the light ? 

And eyes and a complexion — 

Ah, heavens ! — le'-me-see — 
Well, — just in this connection, — 

Did you lock that door for met 
Did I start in recitation 

My past life to recall? 
Well, that's an indication 

I am purty tight — that's all ! 




IN THE HEART OE JUNE 

IN the heart of June, love, 
You and I together, 
On from dawn till noon, love, 
Laughing with the weather ; 
Blending both our souls, love, 

In the selfsame tune, 
Drinking all life holds, love, 
In the heart of June. 

In the heart of June, love, 

With its golden weather, 
Underneath the moon, love, 

You and I together. 
Ah ! how sweet to seem, love, 

Drugged and half aswoon 
With this luscious dream, love ; 

In the heart of June. 




THE OLD BAND 



IT'S mighty good to git back to the old town, shore, 
Considerin' I've be'n away twenty year and more. 
Sence I moved then to Kansas, of course I see a change, 
A-comin' back, and notice things that's new to me and 

strange ; 
Especially at evening when yer new band-fellers meet, 
In fancy uniforms and all, and play out on the street — 
. . . What's come of old Bill Lindsey and the Sax- 
horn fellers — say? 

I want to hear the old band play. 



THE OLD RAND 

What's come of Eastman, and Nat Snow? And where's 

War Harriett at ? 
And Nate and Bony Meek; Bill Hart; Tom Richa'son 

and that- 
Air brother of him played the drum as twic't as big as 

Jim ; 
And old Jli Kerns, the carpenter — say, what's become o' 

him? 
I make no- doubt yer new band now's a competentcr band, 
And plays their music more by note than what they play 

by hand, 
And stylisher and grander tunes ; but somehow — anyway, 
I want to hear the old band play. 

Sich tunes as "John Brown's Body" and "Sweet Alice," 

don't you know ; 
And "The Camels is A-comin'," and "John Anderson, my 

Jo"; 

And a dozent others of 'em — "Number Nine" and "Num- 
ber 'Leven" 
Was iavo-ritcs that fairly made a feller dream o' Heaven. 
And when the boys 'u'd saranade, I've laid so still in bed 
I've even heerd the locus'-blossoms droppin' on the shed 
When "Lilly Dale," er "Hazel Dell," had sobbed and died 

away — 

. . . I want to hear the old band play. 

122 




v * 



THE OLD BAND 

Yer new band ma'by beats it, but the old band's what I 

said — 
It alius 'peared to kind o' chord with somepin' in my 

head ; 
And, whilse I'm no musicianer, when my blame' eyes is 

jes' 
Nigh drownded out, and Mem'ry squares her jaws and 

sort o' says 
She won't ner never will fergit, I want to jes' turn in 
And take and light right out o' here and git back West 

ag'in 
And stay there, when I git there, where I never haf to 

say 

I want to hear the old band play. 





MY FRIEND 

" T T E is my friend," I said,— 
1 1 "Be patient!" Overhead 
The skies were drear and dim ; 
And lo ! the thought of him 
Smiled on my heart — and then 
The sun shone out again ! 

"He is my friend !" The words 
Brought summer and the birds ; 
And all my winter-time 
Thawed into running rhyme 
And rippled into song, 
Warm, tender, brave, and strong. 



MY FRIEND 

And so it sings to-day.— 
So may it sing alway ! 
Though waving grasses grow 
Between, and lilies blow 
Their trills of perfume clear 
As laughter to the ear, 
Let each mute measure end 
With "Still he is thy friend." 




.. 




my 



THE TRAVELING MAN 

I 

COULD I pour out the nectar the gods only can, 
I would fill up my glass to the brim 
And drink the success of the Traveling Man, 

And the house represented by him ; 
And could I but tincture the glorious draught 

With his smiles, as I drank to him then, 
And the jokes he has told and the laughs he has laughed, 
I would fill up the goblet again — 

And drink to the sweetheart who gave him good-by 

With a tenderness thrilling him this 
Very hour, as he thinks of the tear in her eye 

That salted the sweet of her kiss ; 
To her truest of hearts and her fairest of hands 

I would drink, with all serious prayers, 
Since the heart she must trust is a Traveling Man's, 

And as warm as the ulster he wears. 



THE TRAVELING MAN 



II 



I would drink to the wife, with the babe on her knee, 

Who awaits his returning in vain — 
Who breaks his brave letters so tremulously 

And reads them again and again ! 
And I'd drink to the feeble old mother who sits 

At the warm fireside of her son 
And murmurs and weeps o'er the stocking she knits, 

As she thinks of the wandering one. 

I would drink a long life and a health to the friends 

Who have met him with smiles and with cheer — 
To the generous hand that the landlord extends 

To the wayfarer journeying here : 
And I pledge, when he turns from this earthly abode 

And pays the last fare that he can, 
Mine Host of the Inn at the End of the Road 

Will welcome the Traveling Man ! 



131 




DAN O'SULLIVAN 

DAN O'SULLIVAN : It's your 
Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure 
To be trillin' praise av me, 
Dhrippin' swhate wid poethry ! — 
Not that I'd not have ye sing — 
Don't lave off for anything — 
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit 
Av me head shwells up to it ! 

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, 
Whilst yer singin', loike ye can, 
To cry shtop because ye've blesht 
My songs more than all the resht :— 
I'll not be the b'y to ax 
Any shtar to wane or wax, 
Or ax any clock that's woun' 
To run up inshtid av down ! 



DAN O SULLIVAN 

Whist yez ! Dan O'Sullivan ! — 

Him that made the Irishman 

Mixt the birds in wid the dough, 

And the dew and mistletoe 

Wid the whusky in the quare 

Muggs av us — and here we air, 

Three parts right, and three parts wrong, 

Shpiked with beauty, wit and song ! 





MY OLD FRIEND 



YOU'VE a manner all so mellow. 
My old friend, 
That it cheers and warms a fellow. 

My old friend, 
Just to meet and greet you, and 
Feel the pressure of a hand 
That one may understand, 
My old friend. 



MY OLD FRIEND 

Though dimmed in youthful splendor. 

My old friend, 
Y^our smiles are still as tender, 

My old friend, 
And your eyes as true a blue 
As your childhood ever knew, 
And your laugh as merry, too, 

My old friend. 

For though your hair is faded, 

My old friend, 
And your step a trifle jaded, 

My old friend, 
Old Time, with all his lures 
In the trophies he secures, 
Leaves young that heart of yours, 

My old friend. 

And so it is you cheer me, 

My old friend, 
For to know you still are near me, 

My old friend, 
Makes my hopes of clearer light, 
And my faith of surer sight, 
And my soul a purer white, 

My old friend. 
135 




OLD JOHN HENRY 

OLD John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff- 
Old John Henry- 
He's tough, I reckon, — but none too tough — - 
Too tough though's better than not enough ! 

Says old John Henry. 
He does his best, and when his best's bad, 
He don't fret none, ner he don't git sad — 
He simply 'lows it's the best he had : 
Old John Henry ! 








-:s; 



S* 




OLD JOHN HENRY 

His doctern's jes' o' the plainest brand- 
Old John Henry — 
A smilin' face and a hearty hand 
'S religen 'at all folks understand, 

Says old John Henry. 
He's stove up some with the rhumatiz, 
And they hain't no shine on them shoes o' his, 
And his hair hain't cut — but his eye-teeth is : 
Old John Henry ! 

He feeds hisse'f when the stock's all fed — 

Old John Henry — 
And sleeps like a babe when he goes to bed— 
And dreams o' Heaven and home-made bread, 

Says old John Henry. 
He hain't refined as he'd ort to be 
To fit the statutes o' poetry, 
Ner his clothes don't fit him — but he fits me: 

Old John Henry ! 



139 



HER VALENTINE 

SOMEBODY'S sent a funny little valentine to me. 
It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, 
And hovering above them — just as cute as he can be — 
Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry. 

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his 

glee, 
With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly 
At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see 
That one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one is 

meant for me. 

But I know the lad who sent it ! It's as plain as A-B-C ! — 
For the roses they are blushing, and the vase stands awk- 
wardly, 
And the little god above it — though as cute as he can be — 
Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning love 
for me. 





CHRISTMAS GREETING 



A WORD of Godspeed and good cheer 
To all on earth, or far or near, 
Or friend or foe, or thine or mine — 
In echo of the voice divine, 
Heard when the star bloomed forth and lit 
The world's face, with God's smile on it 




ABE MARTIN 



ABE MARTIN !— dad-burn his old picture ! 
P'tends he's a Brown County fixture — 
A kind of a comical mixture 

Of hoss-sense and no sense at all ! 
His mouth, like his pipe, 's alius goin', 
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', 
And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'— 
From Genesis clean to baseball ! 




.... 1 



ABE MARTIN 

The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless 
He draws Abe 'most eyeless and earless, 
But he's never yet pictured him cheerless 

Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal, — 
Whuther on to the fence er clean over 
A-rootin' up ragweeder clover, 
Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover" 

Er newfangled automobeel! 

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in ; 
And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in 
The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in 

As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh 
As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled 
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled 
Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled 

That it was a pleasure to die. 

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at 
Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at 
Both me and you lays back and shakes at 

His comic, miraculous cracks 
Which makes him — clean back of the power 
Of genius itse'f in its flower — 
This Notable Man of the Hour, 

Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts. 
145 




f 



THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY 
READS 



THE little old poem that nobody reads 
Blooms in a crowded space, 
Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds 
That nobody sees its face — 

Unless, perchance, the reader's eye 
Stares through a yawn, and hurries by, 
For no one wants, or loves, or heeds, 
The little old poem that nobody reads. 



THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS 

The little old poem that nobody reads 
Was written — where? — and when? 
Maybe a hand of goodly deeds 
Thrilled as it held the pen : 

Maybe the fountain whence it came 
Was a heart brimmed o'er with tears of shame, 
And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds — 
The little old poem that nobody reads. 

But, little old poem that nobody reads, 

Holding you here above 
The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds 
For all that knows not love, 

I well believe if the old World knew 
As dear a friend as I find in you, 
That friend would tell it that all it needs 
Is the little old poem that nobody reads. 






" 


& 


*&* 




Sk 



IN THE AFTERNOON 

\/ OU in the hammock ; and I, near by, 
1 Was trying to read, and to swing you, too ; 

And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, 
And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, 
That often I looked from the book to you 

To say as much, with a sigh. 

You in the hammock. The book we'd brought 
From the parlor — to read in the open air, — 

Something of love and of Launcelot 
And Guinevere, I believe, was there — 
But the afternoon, it was far more fair 

Than the poem was, I thought. 



IN THE AFTERNOON 

You in the hammock ; and on and on 

I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff- 
But, with always a half of my vision gone 

Over the top of the page — enough 

To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff 
Of your hair and your odorous "lawn." 

You in the hammock — and that was a year — 
Fully a year ago, I guess — 

And what do we care for their Guinevere 
And her Launcelot and their lordliness !— 
You in the hammock still, and — Yes — 

Kiss me again, my dear ! 




BECAUSE 

WHY did we meet long years of yore? 
And why did we strike hands and say 
"We will be friends and nothing more" ; 
Why are we musing thus to-day? 
Because because was just because, 
And no one knew just why it was. 

Why did I say good-by to you ? 

Why did I sail across the main? 
Why did I love not heaven's own blue 
Until I touched these shores again? 
Because because was just because, 
And you nor I knew why it was. 

Why are my arms about you now, 

And happy tears upon your cheek? 
And why my kisses on your brow ? 
Look up in thankfulness and speak ! 
Because because was just because, 
And only God knew why it was. 




HERR WEISER 



HERR WEISER ! — Threescore years and ten, 
A hale white rose of his countrymen, 
Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, 
And blossomy as his German home — 
As blossomy and as pure and sweet 
As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, 
Far withdrawn from the noisy town 
Where trade goes clamoring up and down, 
Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, 
May not trouble his tranquil life ! 



HERR WEISER 



Breath of rest, what a balmy gust! — ■ 

Quit of the city's heat and dust, 

Jostling down by the winding road 

Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode. — 

Tether the horse, as we onward fare 

Under the pear trees trailing there, 

And thumping the wooden bridge at night 

With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, 

Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, 

Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. 

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, 

And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace 

Of unassuming honesty, 

Be there to welcome you and me ! 

And what though the toil of the farm be stopped 

And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, 

While the prayerful master's knees are set 

In beds of pansy and mignonette 

And lily and aster and columbine, 

Offered in love, as yours and mine? — 



154 



HERR WETSER 

What, but a blessing of kindly thought, 

Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not ! — ■ 

What, but a spirit of lustrous love 

White as the aster he bends above ! — - 

What, but an odorous memory 

Of the dear old man, made known to me 

In days demanding a help like his, — 

As sweet as the life of the lily is — 

As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom- wise 

Born of a lily in Paradise. 





A MOTHER-SONG 



MOTHER, O mother ! forever I cry for you, 
Sing the old song I may never forget ; 
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. — 
Mother, O mother, 

Sing low, "Little brother, 
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 



A MOTHER-SONG 

Mother, O mother ! the years are so lonely, 
Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret ! 

Can't you come back to me — for to-night only, 
Mother, my mother, 

And sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 

Mother, O mother ! of old I had never 
One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret ; 

Now — must I cry out all vainly forever, — 
Mother, sweet mother, 

O sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 

Mother, O mother ! must longing and sorrow 
Leave me in darkness, with eyes ever wet, 

And never the hope of a meeting to-morrow? 
Answer me, mother, 

And sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 



159 




!rf vj fr / 



WHAT "OLD SANTA" OVERHEARD 

' CT* IS said old Santa Claus one time 
'*- Told this joke on himself in rhyme. 
One Christmas, in the early din 
That ever leads the morning in, 
I heard the happy children shout 
In rapture at the toys turned out 
Of bulging little socks and shoes — 
A joy at which I could but choose 
To listen enviously, because 
I'm always just "Old Santa Claus,"— 
But ere my rising sigh had got 
To its first quaver at the thought, 
It broke in laughter, as I heard 
A little voice chirp like a bird, — 



WHAT OLD SANTA OVERHEARD 

"Old Santa's mighty good, I know, 
And awful rich — and he can go 
Down ever' chimbly anywhere 
In all the world ! — But I don't care, 
/ wouldn't trade with him, and be 
Old Santa Clause, and him be me, 
Fer all his toys and things ! — and I 
Know why, and bet you he knows why !- 
They witz no Santa Clause when he 
Wuz ist a little boy like me !" 





i 



.":- 



THE STEPMOTHER 

FIRST she come to our house, 
Tommy run and hid ; 
And Emily and Bob and me 
We cried jus' like we did 
When Mother died, — and we all said 
'At we all wisht 'at we was dead ! 

And Nurse she couldn't stop us ; 

And Pa he tried and tried, — 
We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look, 

But only cried and cried ; 
And nen some one — we couldn't jus' 
Tell who — was cryin' same as us ! 

Our Stepmother ! Yes, it was her, 

Her arms around us all — 
'Cause Tom slid down the banister 

And peeked in from the hall. — 
And we all love her, too, because 
She's purt' nigh good as Mother was ! 




WHEN OLD JACK DIED 

WHEN Old Jack died, we stayed from school 
(they said, 
At home, we needn't go that day), and none 
Of us ate any breakfast — only one, 
And that was Papa — and his eyes were red 
When he came round where we were, by the shed 
Where Jack was lying, half-way in the sun 
And half-way in the shade. When we begun 
To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head 
And went away ; and Mamma, she went back 
Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while, 
All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried. 
We thought so many good things of Old Jack, 
And funny things — although we didn't smile — ■ 
We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died. 



WHEN OLD JACK DIED 



When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend 
Had suddenly gone from us ; that some face 
That we had loved to fondle and embrace 
From babyhood, no more would condescend 
To smile on us forever. We might bend 
With tearful eyes above him, interlace 
Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race, 
Plead with him, call and coax — aye, we might send 
The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist, 
(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain, 
Snapped thumbs, called "Speak," and he had not re- 
plied ; 
We might have gone down on our knees and kissed 
The tousled ears, and yet they must remain 
Deaf, motionless, we knew — when Old Jack died. 



164 



WHEN OLD JACK DIED 

When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way, 
That all the other dogs in town were pained 
With our bereavement, and some that were chained, 
Even, unslipped their collars on that day 
To visit Jack in state, as though to pay 
A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned 
Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned 
To sigh "Poor Dog !" remembering how they 
Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because, 
For love of them he leaped to lick their hands — 
Now, that he could not, were they satisfied ? 
We children thought that, as we crossed his paws, 
And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands, 
Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack 
died. 





THAT NIGHT 

YOU and I, and that night, with its perfume and 
glory ! — 
The scent of the locusts — the light of the moon ; 
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, 
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune, 
Till their shadows uncertain 
Reeled round on the curtain, 
While under the trellis we drank in the June. 



THAT NIGHT 

Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleep- 
ing, 
Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright 
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, 
leaping 
Forever, forever burst, full with delight ; 
And its lisp on my spirit 
Fell faint as that near it 
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night. 

O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses ! 

The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay ! 
And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses ! — 
And the music ! — in fancy I hear it to-day, 
As I sit here, confessing 
Our secret, and blessing 
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away. 








TO ALMON KEEFER 
Inscribed in "Tales of the Ocean" 

THIS first book that I ever knew 
Was read aloud to me by you — 
Friend of my boyhood, therefore take 
It back from me, for old times' sake — 
The selfsame "Tales" first read to me, 
Under "the old sweet apple tree," 
Ere I myself could read such great 
Big words, — but listening all elate, 
At your interpreting, until 
Brain, heart and soul were all athrill 
With wonder, awe, and sheer excess 
Of wildest childish happiness. 





*.■-. 



TO ALMON KEEFER 

So take the book again — forget 
All else, — long years, lost hopes, regret ; 
Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain, 
Prayers we have lifted all in vain ; 
Tears for the faces seen no more, 
Once as the roses at the door ! 
Take the enchanted book — And lo, 
On grassy swards of long ago, 
Sprawl out again, beneath the shade 
The breezy old-home orchard made, 
The veriest barefoot boy indeed — 
And I will listen as you read. 





TO THE QUIET OBSERVER 



AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE 



DEAR old friend of us all in need 
Who know the worth of a friend indeed, 
How rejoiced are we all to learn 
Of your glad return. 



TO THE QUIET OBSERVER 

We who have missed your voice so long — 
Even as March might miss the song 
Of the sugar-bird in the maples when 
They're tapped again. 

Even as the memory of these 
Blended sweets, — the sap of the trees 
And the song of the birds, and the old camp too, 
We think of you. 

Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep 
As grateful hearts may laugh or weep ! — 
You give us not only the bird that sings, 
But all good things. 



f 




REACH YOUR HAND TO ME 

REACH your hand to me, my friend, 
With its heartiest caress — 
Sometime there will come an end 
To its present faithfulness — 
Sometime I may ask in vain 
For the touch of it again, 
When between us land or sea 
Holds it ever back from me. 



REACH YOUR HAND TO ME 

Sometime I may need it so, 

Groping somewhere in the night, 
It will seem to me as though 
Just a touch, however light, 

Would make all the darkness day, 
And along some sunny way 
Lead me through an April-shower 
Of my tears to this fair hour. 

O the present is too sweet 
To go on forever thus ! 
Round the corner of the street 

Who can say what waits for us ? — 
Meeting — greeting, night and day, 
Faring each the selfsame way — 
Still somewhere the path must end- 
Reach your hand to me, my friend ! 





THE DEAD JOKE AND THE FUNNY MAN 

LONG years ago, a funny man, 
J Flushed with a strange delight, 
Sat down and wrote a funny thing 

All in the solemn night ; 
And as he wrote he clapped his hands 
And laughed with all his might. 
For it was such a funny thing, 
O, such a very funny thing, 
This wonderfully funny thing, 
He 

Laughed 

Outright. 



THE DEAD JOKE AND THE FUNNY MAN 

And so it was this funny man 
Printed this funny thing — 
Forgot it, too, nor ever thought 

It worth remembering, 
Till but a day or two ago. 

(Ah! what may changes bring!) 
He found this selfsame funny thing 
In an exchange — "O, funny thing!" 
He cried, "You dear old funny thing!" 
And 
Sobbed 

Outright. 





AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING 
1900 

FATHER all bountiful, in mercy bear 
With this our universal voice of prayer — = 
The voice that needs must be 
Upraised in thanks to Thee, 
O Father, from Thy children everywhere. 

A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain 
Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain- 
No murmur of distress, 
Nor moan of loneliness. 
Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain. 



AMERICA S THANKSGIVING 

And, Father, give us first to comprehend, 

No ill can come from Thee ; lean Thou and lend 

Us clearer sight to see 

Our boundless debt to Thee, 
Since all Thy deeds are blessings, in the end. 

And let us feel and know that, being Thine, 

We are inheritors of hearts divine, 

And hands endowed with skill, 
And strength to work Thy will, 

And fashion to fulfilment Thy design. 

So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside, 
Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride ; 

As here to Thee we dare 

Uplift our faltering prayer, 
Lend it some fervor of the glorified. 

We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee 
The blessed home of thrift and industry, 

With ever-open door 

Of welcome to the poor — 
Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly. 



183 



AM ERICA S THAN K SCI VI NG 

E'en thus wc thank Thee for the wrong that grew 
Into a right that heroes battled to, 

With brothers long estranged, 

Once more as brothers ranged 
Beneath the red and white and starry blue. 

Ay, thanks — though tremulous the thanks expressed- 

Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best — 

For all the clanging fray 

Whose discord dies away 
Into a pastoral-song of peace and rest 




*©#- 



OLD INDIANY 



Intended for a Dinner of the Indiana 
Society of Chicago 

OLD Indiany, 'course we know 
Is first, and best, and most, also, 
Of all the States' whole forty-four : — 
She's first in ever'thing, that's shore !— 
And best in ever'way as yet 
Made known to man ; and you kin bet 
She's most, because she won't confess 
She ever was, or will be, less! 
And yet, f er all her proud array 
Of sons, how many gits away ! — 



OLD INDIANY 



No doubt about her bein' great, 

But, fellers, she's a leaky State ! 
And them that boasts the most about 
Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out 
Law! jes' to think of all you boys 
'Way over here in Illinoise 
A-celebratin', like ye air, 
Old Indiany, 'way back there 
In the dark ages, so to speak, 
A-prayin' for ye once a week 
And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you 
From comin', like you ort to do. 
You're all a-lookin' well, and like 
You wasn't "sidin' up the pike," 
As the tramp-shoemaker said 
When "he sacked the boss and shed 
The blame town, to hunt fer one 
Where they didn't work fer fun !" 
Lookin' extry well, I'd say, 
Your old home so fur away. — - 



186 



h 







OLD INDIANY 

Maybe, though, like the old jour. 5 
Fun hain't all yer workin' fer. 
So you've found a job that pays 
Better than in them old days 
You was on The Weekly Press, 
Heppin' run things, more er less ; 
Er a-learnin' telegraph- 
Operatin', with a half- 
Notion of the tinner's trade, 
Er the dusty man's that laid 
Out designs on marble and 
Hacked out little lambs by hand, 
And chewed finecut as he wrought, 
"Shapin' from his bitter thought" 
Some squshed mutterings to say, — 
"Yes, hard work, and porer pay !" 
Er you'd kind o' thought the far- 
Gazin' kuss that owned a car 
And took pictures in it, had 
Jes' the snap you wanted — bad ! 
And you even wondered why 
He kep' foolin' with his sky- 
Light the same on shiny days 
As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.) 

189 



OLD INDIANY 

Wondered what strange things was hid 
In there when he shet the door 
And smelt like a burnt drug store 
Next some orchard-trees, i swanl 
V/ith whole roasted apples on ! 
That's why Ade is, here of late, 
Buyin' in the dear old state, — 
So's to cut it up in plots 
Of both town and country lots. 






BOOKS BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James 
Whitcomb Riley. In Six Volumes. Edited 
by Edmund H. Eitel, with Bio- 
graphical Notes 

GREENFIELD EDITION 

Neghborly Poems Green Fields and Running 

Sketches in Prose Brooks 

Afterwhiles Armazindy 

Pipes o' Pan at Zekesbury A Child- World 

Rhymes of Childhood Home-Folks 

The Flying Islands of the Morning 

Night His Pa's Romance 

The Old Soldier's Story The Old Times 

DEER CREEK ILLUSTRATED EDITION 

Riley Songs of Home Riley Songs o' Cheer 

Riley Songs of Summer Riley Love-Lyrics 

Riley Child-Rhymes Riley Farm-Rhymes 

Riley Songs of Friendship 

CHRISTY-RILEY BOOKS 

An Old Sweetheart of Mine The Girl I Loved 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's When She Was About Sixteen 

Home Again With Me Riley Roses 

Good-bye, Jim 

RILEY-BETTS BOOKS 

While the Heart Beats Young The Raggedy Man 
Little Orphant Annie 

MISCELLANEOUS 

The Flying Islands of the The Golden Year 

Night (Franklin Booth Edi- All the Year Round 

tion) Old School Day Romances 

Baby Ballads A Defective Santa Claus 

A Hoosier Romance The Lockerbie Book of Riley 

Poems Here at Home Verse 

Rubaiyat of Doc Sifers The Boys of the Old Glee Club 
Old-Fashioned Roses 



